We Found Home
Title: We Found Home
Author: missninjastar
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,100
Summary: Brendon get's sick on tour, and Ryan worries, ok?
Content/Warning: Like one swear word but that's it.
Disclaimer: Don't know them, don't own anything but the plotline and the writing oooo
Author's Notes: It's not really a full on Ryden but it's hinted. I literally just finished this now and I'm tired but I wanted to write so there may be some mistakes (if there are point them out I won't be offended I didn't even proof read this) and it got all weird at the end but whatever. I haven't written (or read, to be honest) a Ryden in forever so it may seem a little off but hey ho. Enjoy and leave me love and stuff it makes me happier than anything in the world ok<3
“Something’s wrong.” I state, and it is, it’s too quiet, like there’s something missing, like someone’s-
I turn around to look at Brendon, who’s sitting on a chair in the lounge, all curled in on himself, looking pale and forlorn. “Brendon what’s wrong?”
“He’s sick.” Jon says from behind me. He walks past me, out of the kitchenette with a mug of what is probably hot honey and lemon. Brendon takes it from Jon and smiles appreciatively, not saying a word. I frown slightly, confused as to why Brendon didn’t say thank you. “He’s taken a vow of silence until the show tonight. To preserve his voice.” Jon supplies. Of course, that makes sense. “He doesn’t want us to cancel the show, but you should have heard him this morning, Ry. It was bad, his voice is fucked.” I know it’s serious because Jon rarely swears, usually only when he’s stressed. Brendon looks down at the mug in his hands, guiltily, like it’s his fault he got sick. I’m surprised we lasted this long without someone getting sick. What with the lack of sleep, the messed up sleeping schedule, not eating properly, the ever changing environment and climates and the constant physical exhaustion that sets in, your immune system isn’t really at its finest. Really, Brendon’s done well for lasting this long.
“Yeah, no, I get it. If we have to cancel the show, we’ll cancel the show. It’s better to just miss a show then risk doing damage to your voice permanently.” I tell Brendon, moving to sit in a chair opposite him. Brendon looks up at me, looking shocked, like he expected me to tear into him or something. Don’t get me wrong, I am a ‘the show must go on’ kinda person, but so is Brendon, so if he thinks there’s something bad enough that he’s taking a vow of silence and drinking honey and lemon even though he’s told me several times he’d rather rip his own eyes out with a spork than eat lemon, I know it’s serious, and that he isn’t just being a drama queen.
Brendon sips his drink and grimaces, but continues to take tiny sips anyway.
“Bren, go back to bed and rest, ok? Try and get some sleep. I think I have some painkillers, but we’ll go out and get you something for your throat and we’ll see how you’re doing in a few hours.” I tell him, he nods and smiles weakly, before rising from his seat. I watch him with concern. I’ve seen Brendon sick before. When he was living in that shitty apartment when his parents kicked him out, he’d always be getting sick. That place had no heat and had damp; he was constantly turning up for rehearsals with a runny nose or a cough. But he’d always be somewhat optimistic, even when he looked like death.
But now, watching him shuffle into the back lounge, all pulled in on himself, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and pyjama pants to match, he’s the total opposite of that guy. Of Brendon.
He’s never looked quite so sad.
++++++++++
When I told Brendon that we’ll go out and get him something for his throat, I actually meant Jon and Spencer. Spencer’s had experience with this sort of thing, what with his sisters, and Jon’s Jon; it’s in his nature to know how to look after people. And besides, someone has to stay behind and keep an eye on Brendon.
I’m under strict instructions to wake Brendon up at 5 if Spencer and Jon aren’t back to see how he’s feeling, aka to see if he can do the show. We’ve already told our tour manager Brendon’s sick, and he said he has to know by five thirty, latest, so he can give the fans at least some warning if we have to cancel.
I don’t actually have too, because at 4:45, Brendon comes stumbling out of the bunk area with a blanket around his shoulders, his hair a mess, looking sleepy and soft around the edges.
“Hey.” I say, quietly, because I’m not sure he realizes I’m actually here. He jumps slightly, and looks over at me. He looks less pale than earlier, a blush to his cheeks from sleep. That’s a good sign, right?
He smiles at me, but it’s forced, and comes to sit next to me.
“You feeling any better?” I ask. Brendon glances sideways at me, before looking around the room. He gets up, walks across to pick up his phone from the tiny coffee table, and begins to type something out as he sits back down.
Well. That’s rude. I know he can’t really speak, but he could at least give me some sort of-
He shows me his phone, a text written out on screen. Oh, he can’t talk so he’s typed out what he wants to say. Right. Good thinking.
Have you cancelled the show? It says. Brendon still looks sad.
“No, not yet. We wanted to see if you felt any better, Spencer and Jon have gone to get you something for your throat, they should be back soon. If you want us to cancel it, we can, it’s no big deal.” Brendon shakes his head swiftly, looking alarmed. “Ok, ok. We won’t cancel the show yet, alright? How’s your throat?” Brendon takes his phone back and starts typing again. After a little while, he shows it to me again.
It feels like I’ve swallowed gravel. Are you guys disappointed in me?
“Disappointed? What would make you- why would we be disappointed in you?” I ask disbelievingly. Brendon’s an idiot. He types again.
Because we might have to cancel the show because of me being sick. I know how much you hate that kinda stuff. I shake my head at him.
“Brendon, you’re sick. You wouldn’t be sleeping during the day and not talking and drinking honey and lemon if you weren’t sick. I know how much you hate all those things. Besides, I’ve seen you sick. For you to be taking this so seriously, I know it’s serious.” I tell him. “Remember your shitty apartment? And you always used to be sick because of the damp? You just carried on then, so if you can’t, I know you’re sick, Bren. It’s ok to be sick; I don’t hate you, or whatever.” He sighs, and slumps backwards, returning to the keypad once again.
I’m not that kid anymore. It reads.
“I know.” I say.
Brendon’s head falls to my shoulder and he reaches into my lap to clasp his hand with mine.
Neither of us are the kids we once were.
And that’s how we stay, with nothing but the sound of our breaths and the absence of Brendon’s laugh to keep us company.
It feels like we finally found home.